


Alas, earwax

by wolfern



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad Science, Crack, Everyone is Crazy, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 13:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19853695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfern/pseuds/wolfern
Summary: "Alas, earwax," bemoaned Dumbledore. But he never quite explained how exactly he knew the taste of earwax in the first place. In this story, Harry was too intrigued to let the matter go. He should have been warned - be careful what you wish for. Very, very cracky.





	Alas, earwax

**Author's Note:**

> Written by me and my friend while we were travelling way back in 2013  
> We wrote this for our own enjoyment, so I have to warn you it's pretty cracky - read at your own peril

“Alas, earwax!” bemoaned Dumbledore.

Harry nodded in commiseration before freezing. “Um, sir,” he asked tentatively, “how do you know what earwax tastes like?”

Dumbledore chuckled. Well, that is to say, he gave a low, throaty, almost… suggestive… laugh. “That, my dear boy, is a story for another time.” He smiled. Like a cat.

Harry was nonplussed. But, being the good boy he was, he stayed silent.

''(OvO)''

The next day, after the Headmaster explained what must have happened, he asked if Harry had any more questions.

Harry didn’t. At least, none pertaining to Professor Quirrell, three-headed dogs or the Philosopher’s Stone. But he had still one question niggling at the back of his mind, that he’d been waiting to ask for a while. “Please sir,” he started, trying to gently ease in.

Dumbledore leaned forwards on his mahogany desk, raising his eyebrows.

“How do you know what earwax tastes like?” asked Harry.

The old headmaster froze. As his eyes stared whimsically into the middle distance, an odd smile crossed his face. “Ah,” he sighed, “I knew you would ask. It is a story from long ago, Harry,” he warned.

Harry shrugged. “Merlin is from long ago, too.”

Dumbledore stilled. “How – how do you know about that, my dear boy?”

Harry wasn’t listening. “And you are too, and Stonehenge…”

Dumbledore went grey, so that he was monochrome, save for his robes and his blue eyes that twinkled the way a deer’s does when faced with headlights: panicked and desperate. He cleared his throat. “You… you really want to know?”

Harry nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir.”

For a minute, Dumbledore was silent, staring off into the far distance, seemingly aged by his recollections.

Harry fidgeted and shifted, and cast inquiring looks to Fawkes, who trilled as if in amusement.

“It begins with an idea,” Dumbledore interrupted Harry’s perusal of the familiar room, “as many great things do.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Harry nodded eagerly.

“Spe-ci-fi-cal-ly,” Dumbledore enunciated, “a theory. A hypothesis. A – Are you familiar with quantum physics, my boy?”

Harry furrowed his brow. “I… I’m not really sure, sir. I think I was up to what a force is in Primary.”

“A force?” This idea seemed to be new to Dumbledore.

“Yes, sir, a force. A… You know, I don’t seem to remember.”

Dumbledore nodded sagely. “Yes, Hogwarts does that to you.  
“Let me elucidate the basics of modern Physics. A force – is a force, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry finished.

“Well,” Dumbledore continued, “it’s a push or a pull. You understand, my boy?”

Once again, Harry found himself nodding eagerly.

“Now – the speed of light. According to muggles, nothing exceeds it. And relativity shows that the closer to the speed of light you travel through space, the less through time you travel. You travel into the relative future.”

“What does this have to–”

“Patience!” hissed Dumbledore. “Muggles think nothing exceeds the speed of light, so it’s impossible to travel back in time. But– ” and he leaned forwards, “they don’t know about magic, do they?”

“No sir,” said Harry.

“They don’t. But we do, and so we can.” Dumbledore paused and peered at Harry, the blue pools of his eyes now lying stagnant. “And so, Harry…”

Harry waited. And waited. And waited. And when it seemed Dumbledore was not about to say anything:

“We’re somehow bound to not create paradoxes?” said Harry.  
“Some people think we are above muggles,” said Dumbledore simultaneously.

Harry closed his mouth.

Dumbledore re-opened his. “No, my dear boy, we are bound by nothing, except perhaps Gamp’s Law, and even that has not been fully explored.”

The brow beneath the famous lightning bolt scar furrowed. “But…”

“And now, Harry, it is… _time…_ for bed.” Dumbledore’s stern tone brooked no argument. “Professor Snape, come take Harry to bed.”

The aforementioned man stepped out of the shadows of the giant chestnut cabinet in the Headmaster’s office. He held out a limb, with his black sleeve hanging off the end, to Harry. The boy clutched the cloth in bemusement and followed after his teacher.

It was only as he fell asleep that he remembered his original question, so distracted he had been by Dumbledore’s odd physics explications, and even then, he forgot the next day in the rush of packing and returning to the Dursleys.

''(OvO)''

Harry was sorting breakfast when the question next occurred to him. Dudley had carved his egg into the shape of an ear and was poking the yolk with an expression of profound peace. “Dad, you have too much earwax,” he was muttering. “This egg looks like your ear.”

Harry stockpiled food onto the Dursleys’ plates, then ran upstairs to begin a letter to Dumbledore.

> _Dear Dumbledore,_  
>  _How do you know what earwax tastes like?_  
>  _Sincerely, Harry P._

He sent Hedwig away with a piece of egg, wondering if it was weird for birds to eat eggs.

''(OvO)''

For the next few days, Harry did as his relatives bid, terracing the lawn and cooking breakfasts.

On Wednesday, he was sent out to buy a pork shank for lunch, as well as the family’s weekly litre of oil. Along with this, he bought a pound of butter and an ornamental Buddha fountain – some new, exotic neighbours had moved onto the street, and Aunt Petunia was not about to be outdone by Mrs Gardenia, who had installed some mini rice paddies and bamboo bridges beside her garden path.

''(OvO)''

A week later, while Vernon and Petunia were out socialising, Dumbledore’s reply had Snape knocking morosely at the door. Dudley, hoping it was a girl to whom he’d given his address (in lieu of a phone number, hoping to get lucky) answered.

Snape poked Dudley into the living room with his outstretched limb and called out to Harry. “Mr… Potter. I am de…livering a message… within the next. Five. Minutes. Perhaps… it would be wise. To remove your–” he sneered, “pet… whale. From the vicinity.”

By the time Snape had finished speaking, Harry had served tea, installed Snape into a chair and poked Dudley in the direction of the television. He stood before Snape, feeling slightly befuddled by the strangeness of the setting.

On one hand, Snape was intimidating with his long, black robe and overall dour appearance; on the other, he was sitting in a mauve, tasselled, paisley armchair that was normally inhabited by Marge Dursley.

“Three… minutes… later,” muttered Snape, and Harry recalled his attention to focus on Snape’s message.

It began, apparently, with a cough.  
“Harry,” Snape intoned, “Professor Snape will deliver this message and find you well.”

Yet again, Harry nodded eagerly.

Snape continued, oblivious. “As for your most… intriguing… question, I will be most happy to provide you the answer. Soon. Be patient. I will send you more information… eventually.”

A pout floated onto Harry’s otherwise happy face.

“Never fear!” Snape bellowed, making Harry jump. “Snape will be near.”

Harry stared at his Potions teacher’s bland visage.

“I will, of course, remain out of sight,” Snape whispered, and swept outside in a swirl of black cape and musty fumes. Harry blinked in his wake.

''(OvO)''

Sure enough, as Harry’s relatives returned and he deep fried the chocolate-stuffed pork for dinner, the boy caught a glimpse of beetle-black eyes in the shadows of the bushes of Mrs Figgs’ garden. This trend continued with Harry scrubbing the road and shovelling gravel for Aunt Petunia’s Japanese rock garden.

Snape, it seemed, was always there, but Harry received no other contact from the Wizarding world. No letters from his friends, who had promised to write, no new message from Dumbledore. At least, until a fortnight later – a week before Harry’s birthday.

A friendly-looking woman in a pink bunny suit arrived at the door, proclaiming to have a special message for the soon-to-be Birthday Boy (or bb, as she called him, winking). When bid by Harry to give her message before the neighbours saw, she sang in a trilling soprano. It took Harry a few seconds to translate the cryptic message.

“Harryyy,” came the sung message, “Salutations. This is I, Dumbledore. I am sorry for this method of messaaage, but for some reason, all other messages were not receeeived. To answer your questionnn, earwax tastes bitter, with a gooey consistency … like a particularly pungent cheeeeeese.”

After hustling the woman out the door and out through the gate, mindful of his Aunt’s stupefied gaze and more so his Uncle’s growing redness, Harry retreated to his room, thinking hard.

When the gate slammed, he muttered, “But that wasn’t my question!”

''(OvO)''

And so Harry sought out his elusive watcher, his ever-present shadow, his slightly unnerving teacher: the sly, slinking Snape. He looked under the windowsill – no luck. When he rustled the bushes, only a ruffled chicken ran out, clucking madly and followed by its panicked chicks.

Upon searching the lone tree on Privet Drive (kept – or so Aunt Petunia like to proudly proclaim – because Surrey was an Environmentally Friendly Village), only a large spider dropped onto the roots of the tree, before scrambling hastily away.

Harry, after three failures, was somewhat reluctant to search the garden – big and complicated as it was, with the addition of the rock garden, not to mention the statue of Buddha – and so sat on the steps to think. If he was a tall, swooping sort of wizard, where would he hide?

“Searching for me, are you?” Snape’s voice hissed in his ears. Harry felt icy hands rest solidly on his shoulders. “What do you _want_ , Harry?”

“Uh,” said Harry.

Snape was undeterred. “Life… is a journey, not… a destination. Find your… path, don’t search for… others. When you’re looking for someone… or something… _don’t_. Search forever. The bare necessities… of… life. Will come… to you.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed, “But, sir –”

“What is it, boy?!” Snape broke in.

Nonplussed, Harry continued. “I wanted to get a message to Professor Dumbledore. Can you –”

“Why, of course,” beamed Snape, almost giving Harry pulmonary failure.

“Okay,” Harry said again, “I want to tell him to tell me _how_ he knows what earwax tastes like. _How._ ”

“How? How, lah?” repeated Snape, “Do you mean to cry?”

“What? No,” Harry responded. “Just tell him that. Now, shoo.”

Snape scowled fiercely, but did as bid and meekly disappeared.

''(OvO)''

That night, Vernon hosted his boss and boss’ wife for dinner. Harry, following Dursley protocol, had retreated to his room to stay silent and pretend he didn’t exist.

It was while he lay flat on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, that the creature appeared.

“Whassup,” Harry greeted it.

It looked befuddled for a moment, but its expression rapidly morphed to a pleading horror. “Harry Potter, sir!” it squeaked, large bat-ears flapping maniacally. “Harry Potter sir must not –”

_Crack!_

“Ah, hello, Harry,” Dumbledore’s voice and presence interrupted smoothly.

Harry blinked.

The creature, still squeaking utterances of pure terror, whirled away with a muttered phrase that sounded like “Doh Bee Will Be Back.”

Dumbledore looked momentarily confused, but shook it off and beamed at Harry. “Harry, my boy,” he began. “I received your message – your question, rather.” He stopped.

“…Yes,” said Harry, hoping that was what the old codger wanted.

It wasn’t. “Your question, Harry…” Dumbledore trailed off meaningfully, tilting his head and nodding encouragingly.

“…No?” Harry tried.

Dumbledore gave a great sigh, drooping so that his magical wizard robe curled disappointedly around his feet. “Your _question_ ,” he repeated.

“Um,” responded Harry. “Er. Oh, yes,” he remembered, “I wanted to know – how do you know – I mean, I know what it – but I want to know _how_ – er, _how_ do you know what earwax tastes like?”

That was it. Dumbledore puffed up like a puffin puffed up on gunpowder and a careless match. “Alas,” he proclaimed, throwing out a dramatic hand as if he were on stage, “earwax!”

“…Er, yes,” agreed Harry.

Pouting slightly at this lack of reaction, Dumbledore continued. “It is time, Harry,” he pronounced ominously, peering over his half-moon spectacles towards the boy on the bed, “time for freedom. Freedom of secrets. Freedom of…” His voice grew into a hoarse whisper. “The truth...”

“…Yes?” prompted Harry, when Dumbledore hadn’t spoken for a while and was seemingly distracted by something obviously very interesting in the invisible middle distance.

Dumbledore’s attention snapped back to Harry. “Who knows,” he rumbled, adjusting his glasses, “you may even learn something.”

''(OvO)''

Harry sat silently, patiently, broodingly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to _learn_ something, at least not in the way that Dumbledore made it sound.

Dumbledore opened his mouth like the subject of Van Gogh’s _Scream_. “ _TRY GOONA…”_

“Yes?” What on Earth was the headmaster on about? Trying? Lagoons?

_“MA COITUS…”_

“Uh, sir..?” Very odd, very odd indeed...

On an unrelated note, Harry observed that Dumbledore’s beard had perfect muffling acoustics for benevolence, but not so much for intoning Magical Enchantments. Maybe if he spoke into a goblet; that surely would make the acoustics more profound.

“ _TRACK ’EM, SATIATED DEER!”_

With that, Dumbledore clapped his hands together, and as he drew them apart again, his beard caught in the rings on his fingers. But then his beard was no longer a beard; it was a cloud of swirling mists and mist couldn’t be tangled in jewellery. Instead the mist got tangled around their bodies, enshrouding them in cold and slightly damp darkness, which was much how Harry imagined life was for Dementors.

Harry felt his skin go clammy and his stomach rising, and his mouth salivating, and just as he thought he would really vomit, the rest of his body was jerked upwards and around until it caught up with his food, and so he didn’t. Vomit, that is.

''(OvO)''

Accompanied by angelic choirs – that is to say, Gregorian monk chanting and not remotely satanically enjoyable music – Dumbledore and Harry landed on a grassy hill overlooking a Medieval castle. Harry knew it was a Medieval castle, because most castles that survive today were built in the Middle Ages, and, well, any fool could recognise Medieval architecture, with its narrow loopholes and battlements, and its dramatically overdeveloped gatehouse.

On the other side of the hill, a Dumbledore with significantly less hair on both chin and lip, and significantly _more_ hair on head (coloured, no less!), waved his hands madly in the air, shouting in exhilaration, “Almost there! – live, leptons! breathe, bosons! – sweet delicious Merlin, are these hadrons giving me a har—”

Harry jerked back in shock, but Old-Dumbledore interrupted his younger, less hairy and yet hairier self with a reassurance to Harry. “We are in a memory, Harry… My memory. I can’t see me, or you.”

‘Maybe you need a mirror,’ Harry thought, but he didn’t verbalise this thought. Instead he asked, “Why didn’t we just look into a Pensieve?”

Dumbledore looked stumped. This was a very talented feat, because Dumbledore was not short and round, his head was not flat (nor did it have rings), and his shoes did not curl like roots at all – they went up, and not down. He gestured vaguely with his hand at something. “Order is important, dear Harry, dear Harry. Order is important and so are we. Can’t get mixed up, that’s not a solution to anything, is it, eh?” He winked slyly.

Harry was going to answer with something like “Order of the memories?” or “Important _why_?”, but he was too busy trying not to dribble into hyperspace as he hyper-salivated from nausea, again being transported by Dumbledore’s weird misty beard magic.

This time, however, was noticeably more painful, for the mist had been exchanged for fishing line, which tangled with everything – not just Dumbledore, but Harry also – and had hooks on the end.

“Ow,” said Harry.

Dumbledore peered at Harry over the top of his spectacles (which sat at the bottom of his nose for this very purpose) in abject disappointment. “It is commonly believed that time passing soothes pain. This is true.”

Harry wondered where Dumbledore was going with this. For that matter, where were they both going right now with the fish-hooks? And why did there need to be fish-hooks?

“But also,” continued Dumbledore – and Harry forced himself to pay attention – “this means that time passing backwards increases pain. Much like how eating causes satisfaction, but vomiting does not; and releasing brown packages from the lower opening is often relieving, but having them shoved back up is not really something most people would enjoy.”

Harry vomited on Dumbledore’s shoes.

“You see, my boy?” was Dumbledore’s only comment, but he smiled. Like a cat. “Besides, you should not be complaining. You, after all, asked for it, with your pesky questions. This is another memory, further down the line, that’s all.”

They landed in a field. It was a familiar field. If you landed in this particular field, I can guarantee you, you’d recognise it at once.

Let me give you a clue.

The first thing Harry noticed, besides the sopping grass that was currently attempting to – figuratively – chew through his socks, were the rocks. They were a strange array of rocks, really unlike any other set of rocks on the Earth (that Harry knew about, anyway). And as I promised, he recognised them straightaway.

“Stonehenge!” he breathed.

Dumbledore frowned at him. “Yes,” he agreed. “But didn’t you already know?”

“No.”

“Well.” And Harry almost fainted as Dumbledore huffed, and rolled his eyes like any well-performing teenager.

Standing in the middle of the circle of stone arches was the younger Dumbledore, though he was older now, or perhaps we should say less young. Anyhow, he was standing in the centre of the circle with eyes as wide as Harry’s, turning around slowly.

“I think I’ve done it,” he whispered, grasping his wand. “Sweet quarks.”

Old-Dumbledore nodded gravely to Harry. “He has, and I did,” he confirmed.

“Done what? And what are quarks?” asked Harry, but Old-Dumbledore shushed him.

''(OvO)''

The pair watched as Young-But-Not-That-Young-Dumbledore (whom we shall now refer to as ‘Albus’) sat on the wet grass, apparently ignoring the wetness seeping through his velvet robes. They watched as he cackled gleefully and maniacally at the sky.

They watched as, unbeknownst to Albus, a large stag with a white forefoot crested the rise of the hill upon which the Stones were Henged, and, after a second’s pause, was engulfed by mist. The mist misted away to reveal a middle-aged wizard, who headed directly for the Henge.

(Harry knew he was a wizard because he was dressed as a wizard, with blue robes and a blue, pointed cone-hat, and his long wand was clearly visible in his pocket, though the transformation from the stag to human would have been a good indicator too.)

“Yo,” said the newcomer wizard, causing Albus to jerk upright in astonishment.

Albus’ expression grew fierce, and he bared his teeth and growled low in his throat. “And whom might you be?” he forced through gritted teeth.

The newcomer smiled genially, even more genially than the geniality Dumbledore was exuding in that moment. “Don’t call me Ishmael,” the newcomer said, in a broad Welsh accent. He grinned, seemingly delighted to see Albus.

“What?” Albus snapped, seemingly not delighted to see the newcomer.

Not Ishmael pouted. “Never mind,” he sighed, still in the Welsh accent. “You may call me Myrddin.”

“Mer-din?”

“Yes.”

“Right.” Albus at once became calm, and patted the soaked grass beside him. “Anyone with a stupid name as that must be alright.”

Myrddin, the corners of his mouth still quirked up, slouched over to Albus and crouched in the spot he had so kindly patted. “So,” Myrddin began, rather loudly. He lowered his voice self-consciously. “You’re a wizard.”

“I’m from the future,” blurted Albus.

“He’s from the future,” agreed Dumbledore.

Myrddin’s eyebrows rose and fell, like the shoreline of a beach on a time-lapsed day. “I know,” he responded. “I’ve been waiting.”

''(OvO)''

“He was waiting,” said Dumbledore, “for me. I was shocked.”

“I’m shocked,” said Albus.

Myrddin smiled. Like a cat. Albus cleared his throat uncomfortably. “How did you know I was coming?”

“I always know,” Myrddin replied smugly, and his eyes twinkled in the grey light.

To Harry’s astonishment, Dumbledore flushed, and looked almost miserable. “He does, and did,” he said. “Always has.”

But Myrddin seemed to tire of whatever game he was playing with Albus. “You’ve come here before,” he explained, as though that made everything clear, “and so have I. We have come here often before.”

“We have?” repeated Albus.

Harry turned to Dumbledore. “But isn’t this the first you’ve been here?”

“As I said, my boy,” said Dumbledore solemnly, “it is time… Time for truth. Truth-time. For me and you. I had come here many times before, that is true. But not as I am now.”

“What?” said Harry.

Dumbledore gestured to the duo in the Henge. “Listen,” he urged, “and learn.”

“We have come here often before,” Myrddin repeated. “To rest, and to observe the sky, and to enjoy whatever other pursuits interested us at the time.”

“I haven’t ever seen you before in my life,” declared Albus.

“I hadn’t,” Dumbledore corroborated. “And yet, I had.”

Myrddin smiled. His eyes sparkled. “No, not in the life you lead now,” he agreed. “Tell me, what were you like as a child?”

Scowling, Albus opened his mouth. And closed it. “Do you know,” said he, in a wondering tone, “I don’t think I ever was a child.”

The smile on Myrddin’s face grew. “You were,” he contended. “I remember. You were like the sun.”

“Bright, warm and with a sunny disposition?” Albus returned.

“Well,” answered Myrddin, staring into the middle distance, “you were bright, yes, that’s true, but sometimes, I would say, you were too bright.”

“I was too bright for my own good,” agreed Dumbledore.

Harry shrugged. “Is there such a thing?”

Twirling his fingers in his beard, Dumbledore exhaled for a long time, until Harry became worried that he was going to collapse a lung or self-perform some other injurious malady to himself. “Yes,” he said at last. “There is.”

Meanwhile, Albus shifted to pin Myrddin with his piercing blue-eyed stare. “How did you know me as a child, when I do not?”

Smile growing further, until it almost reached his ears, Myrddin purred his answer. “Think, Albus. You’re clever enough.”

Albus’ eyes narrowed until they were like arrowslits turned sideways, with his glare as the shooting arrows; his lens as the bow. “How do you know my name?” he growled.

There was no verbal response, but Myrddin’s eyebrows arched dramatically higher. They sat like that – and Harry and Dumbledore stock still in their positions – for at least a minute.

The silence was broken by Albus, whose eyes widened to their original globe-like appearance when they’d first arrived. “Have I… Have I travelled before?” he said. “In the… opposite direction?”

Whooping loudly, Myrddin clapped Albus on the back. “Eureka, by golly, he’s got it!” he laughed. “You figured it out when you were twenty-four, and I haven’t seen you since. My God, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Oh.”

''(OvO)''

“Well, it’s a damn shame you don’t remember, my boy,” sighed Myrddin. “You thought it might happen that way – which is why you did what you did, of course.”

“What did I do?” said Albus.

“What did you do?” said Harry at the same time.

Myrddin smiled amiably. “Why, implant the desire in your head, Albus.”

“…Desire?” prompted Albus, voice weak.

Swatting him lightly, Myrddin chuckled, “I can’t believe I must explain this to you, Albus. You implanted the desire to travel back to this particular moment in time into your head, so that I could come and tell you just what I’m telling you at this very moment.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Amazing.” He looked at Dumbledore. “But I don’t see what this has to do with earwax, Professor.”

Dumbledore’s eyes slid away from Harry’s, instead choosing to focus on the middle distance. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Harry,” he mumbled. “We shall come to that. Or rather, I shall.”

And they were. Or rather, Myrddin was. He had his wand out to enunciate his words.

“But, oh, Albus,” he cried. “Do you not remember what we went through to get you to the future?”

Albus blinked at him. “Of course not.”

“You have no memory of the potion, or the method of ingesting it?”

“…No.”

Harry watched as Dumbledore shuddered delicately beside him. “Sir,” he began tentatively, “what was the potion? And how did you ingest it?”

Swallowing, Dumbledore flapped his hands towards the Henge. “Listen,” he croaked throatily.

And Harry did, as Myrddin explained.

“We have to do _that?_ And _that?_ ” Albus interjected every so often. “Is that really necessary? …You realise that is frowned on in in my time, and this time as well, yes?”

But Myrddin was adamant. “It is the only way forwards travel can be achieved,” he proclaimed. “At least, the only way this time, in this time, for you… with me.”

“Are – are you sure?” Albus’ voice sounded just as gravelly as Dumbledore’s had.

Myrddin affixed Albus with his piercing stare. “I’m sure.”

“I suppose that’s what we’ll have to do, then,” muttered Albus. “The ends justify the means, and all that rot. And I can’t say I won’t enjoy it, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” said Myrddin, and he smiled. Like a cat.

''(OvO)''

“And that is how I learnt how earwax tastes, my boy,” said Albus Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, when they were back in Aunt Petunia’s living room.

Harry was gobsmacked. “You – you—” he said. “Did you – and he – really?”

“Oh, yes,” sighed Dumbledore. “And I was right. It was enjoyable, except for the earwax part.”

Feeling the inevitable blush engulf him, Harry stared at Dumbledore mutely.

“I learnt later that he had tricked me, you know,” Dumbledore confided. “His real name was Merlin, not Myrddin.”

Harry was, if it was possible, even more astounded. “ _Merlin_?”

“Indeed,” agreed Dumbledore. “I have no idea why he would do such a thing, especially to me. Apparently, we had been rivals, back then, before I left.”

“Ri-rivals?” stammered Harry.

Dumbledore nodded sagely. “You can understand my confusion, then, as to his possible motives. I do believe that I understand him a little better now, however, having observed you and the young Mr Malfoy.”

“Malfoy?” Now Harry was really confused.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling madly. And he smiled. Like a cat.

**The End.**


End file.
